


The Magic of Solace

by MadameMorganLeFay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Multi, Slow Romance, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMorganLeFay/pseuds/MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: Princess Mithian of Nemeth must overcome trauma caused by the destruction of her kingdom to finally find love. Canon AU, Post 5x04.
Relationships: Merlin/Mithian (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. FUGA (Escape)

At the sound of clattering hooves, Princess Mithian of Nemeth rushed to the window. Soldiers had congregated in the courtyard, forming vertical lines. A faint thud from several floors below made her wince. King Arthur of Camelot must have seen the visitors too, for he now descended the courtyard steps, crimson cloak billowing in the breeze.

A visitor in the middle removed his helmet, revealing a mane of greying hair. This he shoved into the hands of a Knight beside him before dismounting from his horse. 

Mithian's heart turned to ice. 

She withdrew from the window, leaning against the wall to fight off nausea-- the third wave that morning. By the time she had regained her courage, both men had shaken hands and entered the Castle. Only those soldiers remained, swathed in black robes and poised to strike. 

Now she stepped back for good, but the movement triggered a spasm of pain in her right side. Gasping, she staggered over to the table, one hand on the surface and the other clutching her dress. 

Dizziness seized her... then her vision became stable again. A lucky escape that time. 

Gaius, the Court Physician, had visited her earlier with an infusion of comfrey. She had only nodded in response, forced a smile, and claimed to be recovering. The bottle lay untouched on her bedside table, along with yesterday's sleeping draught. 

Somebody knocked. 

"C-Come in." 

Anna, the maid, entered. She carried a basket of dresses, which she placed next to a pile of folded blankets. 

"Your Highness," she said in a strained voice, "I finally found Simon. He said he would re-heel your boots by this afternoon. And Gaius forgot the chamomile, but he says he can--"

"--Of course, of course," Mithian said. She had stabbing pains in her lower back again. "Tell me, is my father awake?"

"Oh yes," Anna said, trying to hide a yawn. "He asked after you earlier, I believe."

Mithian smiled, ignoring another spasm of pain in her right side as she limped towards the door. "Thank you, Anna. That will be all for this morning."

A chill hit her face as she entered the corridor. She glanced left... then right. No difference. Sighing, she picked left. This Castle contained more twists and turns than a small city. It didn't help that the last time she had tried finding her way around, she had been barefoot, disoriented, and increasingly desperate...

Slowing down, Mithian clutched at her right wrist. It stung. She hissed and pulled her hand away, tears filling her eyes. Up until recently, she had worn her late mother's bracelet there... Now it lay discarded on her bedside table. 

Where to now? Unlike in Nemeth's Castle, where guest chambers lined an entire wing, those in Camelot were clustered in awkward locations, interspersed by armour rooms, furniture rooms, and other rooms with no apparent purpose. 

This chaos had delayed preparations for her return to Nemeth, for even walking down the corridor meant weaving through servants carrying platters above their heads. Quite dangerous! She now sent Anna to fetch all supplies. 

Perhaps Gaius could give her a balm or oil for her wrist, but he would also conduct a thorough examination. She could not afford such delay.

After some sharp turns, she ran out of breath and leant against a wall. The sound of footsteps prevented her from closing her eyes briefly: a servant tottered past, carrying 2 jugs. 

"Ah-- excuse me," she said, stepping into his path.

"Your Highness!" the boy sputtered, almost dropping one. "Please excuse me, I was--"

"I seek King Rodor's guest chamber, could you...?"

"Right-- left-- right," he said, still staring at the jugs in alarm. "Then right again."

Fighting the urge to make a sarcastic comment, she repeated the instructions under her breath and set off. 

When she pushed open the door to Rodor's Chambers, she found him sat in a chair with his sleeves rolled up, as though sharpening a sword or polishing his boots. Instead, he held a goblet. That gesture filled her with relief. Despite her previous terror subsiding into resignation that her father was dead... he had survived. 

She rushed to his side and kissed his temple. 

"Why so flustered, my daughter?"

She bit her lip. "He arrived. Not a few minutes ago-- Arthur welcomed him."

"Indeed, I should be in Court." He took a sip from his goblet. "Gaius advised against it, however. Said I should eat, regain my strength."

She nodded. Even in a foreign land, she preferred this stable pose. Her older brother, Rowan, could never manage such on the rare occasions he returned home.

"But," said Rodor with a sigh, "who can think of food at a time like this?"

Glancing at the table, she saw platters of bread, cheese, and cabbage. Another thing she had noticed about Camelot: the kingdom never skimped on meals, and the dishes were like mirrors.

"In fact, your dear mother always used to say..."

Mithian stared at the floor. 

"Ah... never mind. You are too pale, daughter. Eat."

But she shook her head. If only she could share a single memory of her mother. While Rodor shared some, her brother refused. Even before his latest trip to Normandy, he had ignored her tearful pleas for a description, promising letters and wine instead. That was 10 months ago. It was as though she had now lost 2 relatives. 

"I will eat when that-- that cold-blooded--" 

She paused, staring at her father's arm, where a crescent-shaped cut still bled. It must have come from the battle. "Let me tend to that, Father."

In fact, all she knew of medicine was how to avoid poisonous berries. Blood made her head swim, yet she dared not badger Gaius any time either one of them suffered a scratch.

A bowl of water and several cloths lay on the left side of the table. Taking one such cloth, she picked up the bowl and carried it to her father. 

"Even the thought," she muttered, dabbing the cut. "It just--"

"I know, I know. Best to maintain our politically detached stance, though. Officially, we congratulate him for his surrender."

"Congratulate?" Water dripped from her father's arm and onto her lap. "How on earth--?"

"It isn't bleeding anymore: calm down. What's that rash?"

"Nothing," said Mithian, withdrawing. She replaced the bowl and cloth, then pulled down her right sleeve to conceal the rash. "Forgive my outburst, I cannot help feeling that Odin escaped a greater punishment."

"Well, he had Morgana's help. You know how sorcerers terrorise the weak and the innocent. Look what she did to Camelot 4 years ago! Anyway, what would you have Arthur do? Behead the man and cause war? Think of how many would perish."

Mithian plucked out a clean cloth and wiped her hands. "Yes. Sorry."

"No need for apologies: we shall rebuild."

"Of course, Father." She sat down. "How do you feel now?"

"Better, as you see."

Silence. 

"Are you sure?"

"Don't fret yourself about me: an old man can withstand more than you think. I commanded an army in my time."

Army... Chills froze her heart. "D-Did Odin--?"

"--Never mind me, Mithian. Go outside, enjoy the fresh air. You look whiter than snow! Don't let fears of Morgana keep you locked inside these rooms, sumptuous as they are. Trust me, when Odin has signed the Treaty, you shall recover."

She wasn't listening. The lines around her father's eyes, deep as ridges, told a different story. Odin had imprisoned him in King Lothar's Tomb for at least 3 days. Had he eaten? Her blood boiled at the thought of cruelties she dared not express. 

Rodor had a point: Morgana, ravaged by hatred of non-magical folk, would overcome an entire kingdom after Arthur's death. Nemeth's fate seemed a blessing by comparison. Still, Morgana had slaughtered enough to leave deep scars, and she dreaded the eventual letter to Rowan. At least he would not read about his father's death. 

"I want to leave as soon as possible," she said, rising from her chair. "If not for these infernal delays, we should have been off even yesterday! That Wilfrid still hasn't sent my letter to the Council, says they're all being checked and censored in case of espionage-- that's another day out of the window. I just hope they receive it in time-- good thing I asked for cost estimates, though it might be too soon. We'll see."

Rodor sighed. "Yes, the damage. Then again, we only presume that enough Lords remain to make sense of it. Ulfric and William particularly. Jean-Philippe has no head for organisation. But who knows? All of them might have perished--"

"--Don't."

"If not for our rescue..."

Mithian nodded, staring at her hands. Before-- it seemed a lifetime now-- death had been a distant prospect, one that she could compartmentalise until the right time. Now, far too late, she realised that no such right time existed. Even though she had known for days that her lies would lure Arthur to his death, nothing could have prepared her for the sound of Odin's sword whispering like a viper as it was unsheathed, or for seeing it hang in the air... 

...waiting... 

Deep in the bowels of King Lothar's Tomb, she had clung to her father so tight that her fingers had gone numb. Worse than the sight of that sword-- worse even than Morgana's glittering eyes and lip curling in triumph-- was Arthur's acceptance of his death. 

Acceptance. 

Frozen with terror, she had silently screamed, _"Save yourself!"_ Instead, the greatest warrior in the 5 kingdoms offered his head to Odin's sword, and-- 

Her stomach roiled again, making acid burn her throat. Oh no... She turned away with tears in her eyes. 

"Weep for the dead, Mithian," Rodor said softly. "We do not even deserve the clothes on our backs."

She gasped and wiped her eyes. 

Despite summer drawing to a close, Rodor had left the windows open, causing the curtains to flutter. A pigeon landed on the window sill one minute and cocked its head at her, then swooped away. Why couldn't she likewise disappear? 

If not for their rescue, Odin would have turned his vengeance onto Rodor, whose throne he had stolen. And why not the daughter, too? With just a swish and the crack of bone, both their heads would have rolled along the floor, rivulets of blood streaking in their wake. 

"Sit, daughter. It pains me to see you weary yourself."

Duly, she sat. But that didn't help, either. 

Morgana's dead expression still haunted her, a reflection of the carnage in Nemeth which had divided her past from her present. The night when she had seen defenceless citizens crumpling onto the blood-soaked ground, when smoke had clogged her throat as soldiers lit bales of hay and rolled them into the paths of fleeing townspeople. Screams-- wretched screams-- still rang in her ears.

And Morgana rejoiced. Why? No reason, except for hatred of Camelot and its just King-- her own half-brother! So why hadn't she attacked the kingdom directly, like before? Could a sorcerer be weaker than non-magical folk? 

Weary of these questions, Mithian reached out and ripped off a piece of bread. In Nemeth, she would have used a knife. Her tongue expected no taste, yet the morsel was soft as butter and sweet as honey. Bread in Nemeth was grainy and rough, often getting stuck in the teeth. 

"Eat more," her father said, pushing a dish of cheese towards her. "Gaius said he would bring you some comfrey in case you had suffered infection. He did note you seemed paler than usual, though he expected this. Did you take it?"

"No, I--" She swallowed a morsel of cheese. "A little."

Her mind wandered again. Why had Odin agreed to this plan? For months, reports had circulated about his deep debt. On a trip to the southern border last month, she had seen lines of men in rags, ropes cutting into their flesh. Sir William had dismissed her shock, explaining that they were bound for Odin's land to carry out some kind of work on his Castle... and something about new army recruits... It had seemed senseless to her at the time. 

Now she understood. 

Yet what an escape. Where had that earthquake come from? 

"I still cannot understand how Merlin located us," she said, scratching her wrist again. "Last time I saw him, Morgana had-- Oh, it was horrible, I feared..."

Rodor nodded and took another sip. "A brave man. I could not believe it when he slew a soldier twice his size, and found an escape route, too. No wonder he has Arthur's full confidence. We could do with such men in Nemeth. In fact, I owe him personal thanks-- I should--"

"No, sit. Gaius' orders. But I agree: thanking Merlin quite escaped my mind in the rush to return. How remiss of me! Once Odin has left, I will thank him, and then we must leave."

An easy plan. But as time passed, a number of servants confirmed that King Odin remained in the Castle. Mithian's stomach rumbled. Surely it could not take the defeated King all day to sign the Treaty? Arthur had explained the process 2 days ago, but exhaustion had prevented her from listening. Come to think of it, he had mentioned terms... What terms? Did that mean further delay? 

Impossible. Odin must leave today. Arthur might have buried his longstanding emnity, but not even a thousand signatures could make her forgive Odin. 

At last, she stood. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to find Merlin."

"Are you sure? I think he will be in Court."

"Maybe. Or elsewhere. I'll give it a chance."

"What of Odin?"

She pursed her lips. "Even he won't prevent me from doing the right thing now."

However, her stated confidence exceeded her sense of direction. Back in the corridor maze, she peered into chamber after chamber without success. Down a flight of steps she went, and round a corner.

More empty chambers. 

For heaven's sake. If only the numerous statues of Knights could show her the way! Nemeth adorned her Castle walls with seals, and the windows with scenic engravings. 

Or at least, that was the case before she left. 

Despite sun rays piercing the windows, Mithian shivered in her cream gown. Time had not changed Camelot, which remained beautiful as ever-- particularly at Yule, where the air smelt like cinnamon and rosemary, and she could warm her fingers by hearty fires. Everybody still laughed. People said the new Queen had brought joy and goodwill to all men, regardless of rank. 

Yes, Camelot retained her glory. On the other hand, time had demoted Mithian from royal fiancée to an honoured, unmarried guest. 

At this reminder, her shoulders sagged. These arches and statues... She might have ruled them all. The entire Court of Nemeth had insisted on nothing less, invoking the memory of Nemeth's late Queen as proof of her destiny to marry King Arthur.

Brushing her hand along the wall, Mithian's lips twisted into a strange smile. Oh, she had heard that story so many times... 

It was the story of Elinor, daughter of a Northumbrian Lord, who married her father 46 years ago. People had worried that the fastidious King would find fault in her as he had done with several other choices. Yet weeks of rain could not dampen either Elinor's beauty nor her lively humour. Rodor had surrendered on the spot. 

4 years ago, Mithian was supposed to follow straight in Elinor's footsteps. 

She had not. 

So where to now? All pretence of direction and purpose vanished as she peered out of the windows. Only return to Nemeth, land of hills, wintry air, and endless sobriety, could restore her identity. 

The corridor grew wider now, though she was distracted by Latin inscriptions on the flagstones. Then she heard voices and footsteps. Had she reached the Council?

Lords drifted by in groups, engrossed in discussion. She shrank back into the shadows, deciding to watch for Merlin in silence. So far, Camelot's citizens stared at her wherever she went, one of the reasons why she avoided walks outside. Back in Nemeth, nobody commented on the presence of a newcomer, unless...

Her throat went dry: King Odin-- and King Arthur-- walked past. 

Neither one spoke to the other, but she saw no hostility. Still, Odin's presence only aggravated her aches and pains. When she returned to Nemeth, she would discover the slaughtered, the traumatised, the impoverished, the raped, the sold... She would have to bury the fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. 

Tears slid down her cheeks, and her hands shook. 

Where was Merlin?

She waited until Odin's raven black robes disappeared from view before stepping into the open and wiping her eyes. Two men in purple cloaks passed, frowning and muttering the same way Rowan did when negotiating trade deals. One of them carried a scroll, tied with purple ribbon.

Silence fell as they passed, too. She tiptoed in the direction they had left, sure the Council Chambers lay nearby. 

Yes... To her left, 4 guards stood outside the entrance, two each side. Each carried a spear. 

A chill ran down her back. 

"Nothing to fear, Your Highness," said one, bowing to her. "You may enter."

Still trembling, she entered the Council Chambers. 

As usual, it stunned her into silence. The ceiling, a marble embroidery of arches, stretched into the sky. To her right, sunlight streamed through the windows, making each pane resemble a sheet of crystals. 

The famed Round Table stood before her, that symbol of Arthur's reign which provoked hushed tones and reverence in Nemeth. Some claimed it was an omen, others a prophecy. All men of valour longed to sit by it-- even if they dismissed Arthur's rule as unorthodox. 

Sir Gwaine stood on the other side, conversing with Sir Leon. The latter saw her first and bowed, causing his friend to copy. Sir Leon had shown her exceptional courtesy, for which she also owed him thanks. There, too, was Sir Percival to their right, who had guided her father to safety. Beside him was Sir Elyan, who had helped the captured Knights escape while surrounded by the enemy. 

Arthur had chosen his men well. 

Despite the circumstances, all the Knights smiled in satisfaction and exchanged hearty greetings. 

Where was Merlin? Ah, he stood to Gwaine's right, reading a scroll. Her shoulders relaxed as she stepped forward-- 

Then she stopped. 

Was something wrong? Merlin looked... pained. No, she must be exaggerating, particularly from a distance. Then she spotted the violent purple bruise above his right eye, and her mouth went dry. 

Before she could speak, Sir Gwaine nudged Merlin and nodded in her direction. 

"Good morning," she said, more to him than anyone else. "I wanted to thank you-- all of you-- for your incredible bravery these past few days. It has been..."

Here, she decided to change direction. 

"Both myself and the King of Nemeth deeply appreciate all of your assistance, and are in your eternal debt. So thank you."

Leon bowed. "It is our pleasure, Princess, though no debt is necessary. We are allies, after all."

A murmur of agreement from everyone else made her heart grow warm. 

"How did the signing go?"

"King Odin has agreed to all proferred terms," Leon said. "We expect that he will withdraw over the next few weeks." 

"Weeks? Not too many, surely?"

"Well," said Gwaine, shaking his hair, "the bastard planned the whole stitch-up pretty well, considering he barely has a brain. No, I'll call him a bastard if I like, Leon. Of course, we'd have made Morgana cough up some coins, too, were she not buried under a pile of rock. Good riddance, if you ask me."

Mithian got the impression that the Knights would have laughed at that comment, had not Leon cleared his throat pointedly. Instead, they smiled. 

Merlin on the other hand... His shoulders seemed tense? 

"King Odin," said Leon, frowning at Gwaine, "must dismantle all makeshift battlements, remove lookouts, and recall all spies."

"Wait-- spies?"

"It would appear so, Your Highness."

For some reason, Mithian looked to Merlin for an explanation, though he still appeared ill at ease. 

"You said they attacked at night," he said in a heavy voice, rolling up the parchment, "so the kingdom must already have been infiltrated. Odin will also return stolen possessions from your Castle, the Town, and villages."

Stolen possessions? Infiltration? Mithian had no idea how to respond, not even with gratitude that King Arthur had been thorough in his dispensation of justice. A cloying fear at the state of her kingdom gave her pause. Spies in Nemeth? 

Impossible. 

After a moment, however, she could only nod and force a smile. 

"Is that the Treaty?" she asked him.

"Yes." Merlin smiled strangely. "A scribe is preparing a copy for your father."

Gwaine snorted. "Andrew. Writes like a drunken spider dangling from a roof. Good luck deciphering anything he says. What, Leon?"

"As long as it gets done," Mithian said, more to herself than anyone else. "Merlin, please come and inform my father about the copy."

He seemed surprised at the summons, but even Leon and Gwaine could agree on that request. So, with a slight bow, Merlin followed her out of the Council Chambers. 

As she passed the guards and their spears, another chill ran down her spine. She forced herself to gaze ahead, thinking of her Chamber. Perhaps tonight she would sleep peacefully. As for now, the time had come to give thanks for an inexplicable rescue. 

However, Merlin spoke first. "How is your father?"

"Steady," she said, wincing as pain rippled down her back. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "I think he should have recovered by the time we leave-- I'd give it 2-3 days, hopefully not longer. Meanwhile, I just wanted to say--"

"--Leave?"

She glanced at him, noting the bruise again. "Well, of course. What is it?"

Merlin had stopped walking. "Why are you leaving?"

"Well... Our people... I mean, we have to attend to repairs, rehousing..."

"Can't your Council handle those repairs?"

"You understand why the King must oversee the matter. And myself."

"So your Council cannot instruct repairs in your absence?"

Now she had to stop walking, both eyebrows raised. "That is a... presumptuous question."

For a moment, she thought Merlin would apologise and withdraw the statement. But after making an awkward gesture, he said, "You're unwell."

"I am not."

"On top of that," said Merlin, ignoring her denial, "your father needs rest."

"Which is--"

"What is the point in leaving now when you haven't the strength to deal with the aftermath?"

From the beginning, Mithian had recognised that Merlin spoke his mind and disdained protecting royal egos. Unlike many of her class, she never disapproved of him advising and challenging Arthur, and remembered that his sharpness had saved her life. 

However, this objection? Inexplicable, even impertinent. And why now, when they had barely spoken over the last 2 days?

Disinclined to argue, she finally said, "Odin has withdrawn, Merlin. I see no reason why-- I mean, it is nothing less than my duty. And, I am sure King Arthur would not wish for us to intrude on his hospitality, when he has done more than enough to..."

Too embarrassing. She tried another tack. 

"I wrote to my Council, anyway. So I have to return."

Merlin just stared at her, then continued walking. 

One moment she stood there, blinking. The next, she rushed to catch up. 

Silence, then? She should not care, for her intentions had not changed. Personal discomfort-- here, she slowed down again as more pain rippled down her back-- meant nothing compared to that of her people. Why couldn't Merlin see that? 

"Was it left next-- I really cannot remember the way," she asked, laughing nervously. 

"Right." Merlin paused. "You can go and rest, if you would like."

"Unnecessary." She forced a smile just as her rib ached again. It took monumental self-control not to clutch the affected area. "Really, I can handle it."

Once again, Merlin did not answer, but turned right and opened the door to Rodor's chambers. Arthur was already there, and for a brief moment, she feared seeing Odin as well. 

Without thinking, she grabbed Merlin's sleeve.

"Odin is in another wing," Merlin said under his breath. 

Blushing, she pulled away and stepped inside. 

"Your Highness," she said, bowing. 

Arthur nodded at her with a smile she did not deserve, a small sign of his honour and kindness.

"The copy?" Arthur asked Merlin, gesturing at Rodor. 

"It will be ready tomorrow afternoon, Your Highness," Merlin said, his previous apprehension gone. "Lord Andrew will also prepare ancillary documentation for you."

"Very good, thank you," said Arthur, as though he was the recipient. "Mithian, I understand you wish to leave soon. Merlin shall happily place himself at your service."

Mithian opened her mouth, now afraid to look at Merlin. "I-- thank you, Sire."

"As I was saying, Odin's departure should take between a month to 6 weeks. I understand the inconvenience this may cause, so we shall send a group of Knights to accompany you. If you wish for them to remain until Odin has fully left, you need only say the word."

No. She did not deserve such generosity. "That is most kind, Sire, although it will not be necessary."

"No, no," said Rodor, standing to shake Arthur's hand. "It is an excellent idea. While I don't doubt that Odin will uphold his obligations, we could certainly use your Knights in dealing with any unrest--"

"But Father, I am sure that--" 

Anything more she might have said was cut short by more back pain. 

"The battlements, the bridges!" Rodor said, waving away his daughter's interruption. "Dismantled with such ease! The work of sorcery, no doubt. How can we better defend ourselves against Morgana?"

"A strict policy against magic," Arthur said, folding his arms. "I argued the case to Odin, given his consorting with sorcerers led to such calamitous damage upon your Kingdom, and the slaughter of innocent people. If you were sincere in your repentance, I said, you would prohibit all magical practice on pain of death. He agreed."

Rodor nodded. "Good."

"Of course," said Arthur, "for the Treaty to be effective, you too must strengthen Nemeth's stance on magic. I took the liberty of assuming that Morgana's cruelty to Mithian and your subjects would encourage to you to denounce it no longer with mere disapproval, but with the force of the law." 

"After this, I make no objection," said Rodor. "You are right: I have been too lax. Morgana must have scoffed at our weakness."

"We have all been so deceived," said Arthur, suddenly staring out of the window. Then he collected himself, and added, "The damage we can discuss at length once you have recovered."

Mithian cleared her throat. "Sire, if I may-- we shall leave soon. Perhaps we could discuss it tomorrow?"

"As you wish." Arthur turned to Merlin, who was staring at the floor. "Merlin-- prepare parchment for tomorrow, bring our defence plans, summon Andrew."

"Sire."

His voice was definitely faint that time, his shoulders definitely tense. 

While Arthur and Rodor made small talk, Mithian watched him leave with a puzzled frown. 

Why was he grave, when others were victorious?


	2. INTERROGATIONES (Questions)

"Father," Mithian said after Arthur had left, "you need to sleep. Remember Gaius' orders?"

Rodor only shrugged, lowering himself into a chair as though he intended to sleep in that. "With all your rushing, I rather wonder whether you also follow his advice! Before we leave, I want his confirmation that you have recovered."

"Later," she said, turning away to hide a sigh. "For now, you need rest."

After a quick hug, she also left. 

Even though her back ached, she grit her teeth and walked right past her chambers. 

Why was Merlin upset? Only that violent purple bruise above his right eye served as a clue. It was an indictment against her naïvété, sending Merlin on an errand so simple, she now understood why Morgana followed him in suspicion. 

Where would he be? If he was preparing parchment, perhaps the Scriptorium? Instead of wandering around, she would find a Lord or scribe to give her directions. 

Her shoes clattering on the floor, she scurried down a flight of stairs, then-- ow! Cursing, she pulled the hem of her dress from under her shoes. A near miss, though tumbling downstairs wouldn't be her worst misfortune. 

Voices wafted through the corridor. The doors were wider here, framed by stone arches and more Latin inscriptions. The voices spoke French, exclusively used in Nemeth's own Court. That small reminder of home made her shoulders relax. 

Should Rowan come home this year, she would tell him of Camelot's administrative quarter, and show him a copy of the Treaty translated into French. After all, he had founded a great scribal tradition in Nemeth, along with resurrecting its dormant wine sector. She was proud of him, though his success also meant the end of a blissful childhood spent playing chase, learning to ride, or curling up next to him while their father read wonderful tales of Knights on noble quests. 

Seeing a man wearing a crimson cloak, with several scrolls wedged under his arm, she seized her chance. 

"Excuse me-- my Lord?"

"Your Highness." He smiled and bowed low. "How might I assist you?"

"I was wondering where I might find the Scriptorium?"

The man tapped his thick red beard. "Ah. Yes, as a matter of fact, I too have business there. A royal summons, if you will, through rather unorthodox channels. Allow me to escort-- are you well?"

"O-Of course."

"But your rib? Perhaps I should take you to the Physician instead--"

"No, no..." Why was she so flustered, when she could order him? Taking a deep breath, she said, "Please take me to the Scriptorium."

Her tattered confidence paid off as the man bowed and obeyed. Gesturing behind her did not erase his concerned frown, however. Duly, she turned, putting weight onto her aching ankle...

"Your Highness?"

"I'm fine," she said, suppressing another gasp. 

The frown deepened. Perhaps some conversation would distract him. As they said in Nemeth, awkward silences showed limpid imagination and led to inappropriate thoughts. 

"May I enquire as to what you need?" asked the man, saving her the trouble. "So that I might be of further assistance?"

"Oh-- I just thought Merlin might be there. That's all."

"Indeed! Well, it just so happens that I also intend to speak with this same Merlin, in relation to your esteemed father."

She glanced at him, both eyebrows raised. "Really? What for?"

"Yes-- forgive the lack of introduction. I am Lord Andrew, scribe and scholar. I am the one copying and translating the Treaty for your esteemed--"

"I see," she said, forgetting that in Nemeth, you never interrupted a conversation. "Yes, I think Sir Gwaine mentioned something..."

Lord Andrew snorted-- or at least she thought so. When he saw her watching, he smiled and cleared his throat. 

Fearing they might slip into silence again, she said, "Merlin says you will have the Treaty finished by tomorrow afternoon."

"Well. Officially speaking, yes."

"Officially?"

They passed a cluster of laughing Knights, who, upon seeing the Princess, stopped and bowed low. She forced a smile to hide her disappointment that even they could not act normally before her. 

"Given that I was only informed of this deadline half an hour ago," said Andrew, ignoring the Knights, "it is official."

Mithian opened her mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. This left her no choice but silence again.

"Of course," said Andrew, sparing her this inconvenience, "one does not question the King's orders-- if indeed, they did come from the King."

"Why, what do you mean?"

Andrew seemed to hesitate. "Many who, shall we say, have the King's ear like to pass off their instructions as his."

"Surely nobody would dare do such a thing?"

Andrew smiled, emboldened. "You would be most surprised, Your Highness. I am sure that in your own Court, such presumption and indecorum would never occur."

"I certainly have never heard of it." She pursed her lips for a moment, thinking of Lords Ulfric, Jean-Philippe, Guillaume, Robert-- all respectable, obedient men. "And if I were made aware of such dishonesty, I would surely not tolerate that conduct."

Andrew nodded. "I thought as much. It is good to see that some still value propriety and protocol."

This made Mithian, the great ambassador for propriety and protocol, smile graciously. 

"Well, here we are: the Scriptorium."

He pushed open the doors, and a flood of light enveloped her. On the other side, she counted seven windows with elegant lattices that let in white sunlight. In front of each window was a desk, slanted in such a way that the scribe could benefit from the light without it obscuring his work. 

And on the far left-hand side, rifling through a pile of parchment with one hand and his tousled black hair with another...

"Merlin," said Andrew abruptly as he strode towards the cabinets. "I received your summons, with not a little surprise. After His Majesty's, shall we say, inflexible deadline, I rather wonder why I am again removed from my work this way."

His Majesty's deadline? But Arthur had asked Merlin when the parchment would be ready. As Merlin looked up, Mithian's eyes widened as she realised her mistake. 

Oh. 

When Andrew had referred to unorthodox means, people who passed off their own instructions as coming from the _King_ , and the wilful disregard of propriety and protocol, she'd just assumed-- She'd had no idea that he _really_ meant... How mortifying! 

Chewing her lip, she shuffled backwards to avoid Merlin's line of sight. 

"I'm afraid," said Merlin smoothly, folding his hands behind his back, "that is the only available option."

"Well, Her Royal Highness the Princess of Nemeth is here," said Andrew, gesturing at her, "and most astonished, I can assure you, of the speed being demanded-- not to mention the audacious manner in which I received this news. Is that not so, Your Highness?"

Merlin gave her a curious look. 

She blushed, opened her mouth, and wished she could melt into the floor. 

"One finds it quite, shall we say, unorthodox... Merlin." Andrew punctuated this by placing his scrolls neatly on a smaller table. 

"Nonetheless," Merlin said, "that is the deadline... my Lord." 

Was it her imagination, or was the use of "my Lord" sarcastic? An awkward silence followed, one she would have filled with conversation if not for Andrew making her seem critical of Merlin's decisions. 

"Anyway," said Merlin, "the King wishes to convene a meeting tomorrow concerning damage to Nemeth's battlements--"

At this, Mithian looked up. 

"--and has requested your presence."

"More scribal work, then," said Andrew, taking a scroll that Merlin passed to him, "on top of the Treaty document that I must copy and translate before tomorrow afternoon by hook or by crook."

Mithian could no longer ignore the sarcasm and displeasure emanating from both men. 

"Presumably, you will find time for both, my Lord."

Biting her lip, Mithian looked another way. Another silence followed, full of expectation. Glancing at Andrew surreptitiously, she saw him frown and twist his lips as though thinking of something equally impertinent to say. 

Astonishingly, Andrew only returned to reading the scroll, and Merlin likewise returned to his. The silence between them was a stone wall, both waiting on each side for the other to surrender.

At last, Andrew rolled up the parchment and tucked it inside his robes. Then he bowed to Mithian-- which she had no choice to accept, even as she now regretted inadvertently denouncing Merlin's behaviour-- before walking to the door and saying over his shoulder: 

"I presume you will summon me tomorrow?"

Merlin put down his parchment. "If you cannot find the Council Chamber, my Lord, then Sir Gwaine will send someone to assist you."

At that, Mithian's mouth hung open. She quickly stared at the ground until Andrew had gone, leaving the door wide open. For anyone to have spoken like this in Nemeth--! 

"Uh... S-Shall I close the door?" she asked, after Andrew's steps had died away. 

Merlin answered by shrugging. 

She closed the door, took a deep breath, and then turned back. 

"By the way--" She blushed and twisted her fingers together, "Contrary to what Andrew said, I in fact made no comment about your...ah, deadline."

That was half the truth, at least. 

"I do hope you were not offended?"

Merlin smiled a little. "Not really."

He made no mention of the offence he had so glaringly caused to Andrew, however. Or any apology. 

"It is most kind of you to help my father," she said softly. 

"It's nothing," he said, now avoiding her gaze. 

"I hope these tasks aren't too onerous?"

"What?" 

She could have sworn that he snorted there; certainly, his eyes seemed bright with amusement. 

"Well, I..." 

She paused. Was this intrusive? Perhaps the sight of him lying on the rocks, barely breathing while blood trickled down his cheek had caused her to jump on any subsequent sign of discomfort...

However, Merlin raised both eyebrows, clearly expecting the reason for her visit. 

"I hope I am entirely mistaken, but earlier, I got the impression that you were... I don't know-- upset? In the Council Chamber and later, before my father. Is anything wrong?"

Merlin's eyes went wide-- then he picked up another roll of parchment and unfurled it. "I-- nothing was-- is-- the matter."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." 

But he wouldn't look at her. 

"I can't help but notice that bruise's still there. Do you have a headache, or...?"

For a moment, silence. 

Then Merlin said, "Morgana is a constant shadow on this kingdom. I am used to it."

He still wouldn't look at her, and she flinched as unpleasant memories intruded. 4 years ago, this was the only response she would receive from him, despite smiles, compliments, and attempts at conversation. What mortified her even more was seeing this same man, so esteemed by King Arthur, show unfailing loyalty and kindness to others. 

By the time she realised why-- the daughter of a blacksmith who owned Arthur's heart-- it was too late. To be honest, knowing he cared for his friend so much that her presence was downright offensive hurt even more. 

"Would you like to sit down, Princess?" Merlin asked, in a warmer tone. 

She jumped. "Oh! Thank you."

An easy way of changing the subject, but she let it pass. 

"Is there... anything I can help with?"

"In fact," she said in a low, cautious voice, "I was supposed to thank you when we returned."

"You don't need to thank me: thank Arthur."

She stared. After all he had done, he passed the credit entirely onto the King? Why, then, did he complain about never getting enough credit from the latter?

"I have already done so. Indeed, if I had time enough, even that would be insufficient. As it is, I have encroached on his hospitality for too long."

Merlin put down the parchment-- finally. "If that were true, he would have asked you to leave. But you insist on going yourself."

That left her speechless again. 

"Be that as it may," she said, as though her mind were perfectly calm, "I think you deserve more than thanks. Why do you shake your head? Nobody else noticed that Morgana was holding me hostage--"

"--The door was locked."

But he didn't sound convinced. After all, Morgana's voice had fluctuated between weak and unnaturally strong. During their journey to Nemeth, the sorceress had suffered repetitive, conspicuous spells of dizziness-- even fainting. The Ageing Spell was suffocating her, just as Mithian had predicted, bringing her dangerously close to losing her disguise. And then what?

Despite all this, nobody other than Merlin had suspected the elderly maid. 

"It isn't just about Morgana-- you showed great concern, and even though I knew what would... I felt... less alone..." 

Once again, she had wandered into dangerous territory, the images of Arthur waiting quietly for death stopping her mid-speech. 

"--Speaking of which," she said slowly, "You never mentioned how you overcame Morgana's attack, let alone how you located us. I could not possibly describe my astonishment at seeing you appear from nowhere-- in the middle of an earthquake, no less."

Merlin was staring at his hands. "Gaius revived me, then Gwaine showed me the way to King Lothar's Tomb. They deserve more thanks."

"But the earthquake-- weren't you terrified that it might block you from entering? Or that the falling stones might have injured you?"

For a moment, she thought Merlin wouldn't answer. Then he said quietly, "It was a life or death issue, anyway."

"Well, I think you showed extraordinary bravery."

When she had thanked Arthur for rescuing her father, he had smiled graciously, though giving credit to others. Merlin, however, said... nothing. He didn't even smile, as Arthur had done. Narrowing her eyes, she tried deducing his true feelings, but could only come up with... conflicted. Right-- he seemed conflicted, as though he did not deserve her thanks. 

Why?

"Is there anything else you require, Princess?"

"I..."

Something was missing. During the course of their conversation, she had skipped over some inconsistency, some glaring problem, and now her confused mind could not recall it. 

"How are your preparations for departure going?"

"Departure? I was under the impression that you--"

"--I stand by what I said earlier," said Merlin firmly. 

Her heart sank. 

"Nonetheless, Arthur said that I must assist you in any way possible."

Sitting up straighter, she said, "Well, no need: everything is going as planned."

"Really? Your maid keeps begging Gaius to hurry up with the chamomile and other tonics."

"Well... delays are to be... expected."

"Or rather, detested." Merlin smiled again. "You're 2 steps away from throttling someone, aren't you?"

Mithian didn't answer. She had no answer. Forgetting momentarily about the aches, the pains, the delays, and even the questions Merlin had refused to answer, her expression was somewhere between astonished and amused. 

Who was Merlin, really? Someone who could both confuse and amuse her in one breath, all while acting politely. Yet he was also someone whose mere gaze could lessen her loneliness and fear, as it had done while Morgana kept her hostage. 

"Are you worried about Odin?" he asked softly. 

Her shoulders went tense. "No."

"I don't pretend to understand what you are going through-- especially since he and his soldiers are staying here-- but you have nothing to fear from him. As terrible as his attack was, he has shown genuine signs of repentance, and Arthur will ensure he withdraws as soon as possible."

She nodded, staring at her hands. "At least we have the Treaty, if nothing else."

When Merlin did not answer, she glanced up. Then-- and only then-- did he nod. 

"And now that he has banned magic," she said, encouraged by this, "Morgana surely cannot harm us anymore."

"That-- that is the conventional wisdom."

"Well, I am glad. Magic is... violence. Terror. Wickedness." She shuddered. "I do not think it is possible to feel safe while sorcery exists."

Merlin said nothing, which she took as encouragement to continue. 

"I mean, sorcerers have the power to-- to burn..." Here, she rubbed her right wrist, "and to kill... How could such people ever be trusted? Morgana... she revelled in the carnage... all those people begging for mercy... lives ended on the spot... nothing more than an incantation..."

Tears sprang to her eyes at this point. 

"Arthur is right. We were too lenient on such people and their... unnatural powers, and this is how they repay our complacency. I should not be surprised. These are not human beings: they know nothing but evil." She sniffed. "Just evil."

Merlin took a deep breath. "I... I can see why Morgana has given you that impression."

Nodding and wiping her eyes, Mithian stood up. 

"Anyway, I don't want to disturb you any further. I think I will continue with preparations, maybe get some sleep... Are you sure that Arthur has not given you too much? No? All right... I suppose I shall see you tomorrow?"

He nodded. 

Smiling at him, she left. 

That night, she stared at her mother's bracelet. Every time she reached out for it, she would wince as though it was still under Morgana's enchantment. Now, any fire startled her-- even Anna lighting one earlier. To her maid's astonishment, she had preferred to sit near the window, rather than remain warm. 

Thanks to Morgana's eyes, her wrist had burned. Now, it smouldered and chafed as blisters, rashes, and open cuts accumulated... 

Tears dripped from her nose now, splashing onto the bedside table. Mithian blew on the candle. It flickered, but remained alight. Sniffing, she blew harder this time, before climbing into bed. 

Sleep did not come until after midnight. She had tucked Gaius' sleeping draught into her sack, for use on the journey to Nemeth. By the time rose gold shades of dawn pierced through her curtains, she had been awake for an hour or more. 

All the more reason to leave. 

You did not complain about pain in Nemeth. Instead, you rushed to the angular Physician's Chambers, presented him with a slip of parchments that explained your symptoms, and waited for him to produce a bottle. This he handed over without a word, the other hand open for payment. After that, you rushed back to your Chambers. 

In Camelot, things were different.

First, Anna arrived, dragging a basin in one hand, and a jug of hot water wedged under her left arm. 

Chewing her lip, Mithian braced herself for their morning routine. She would watch Anna prepare the bath water, the soap, the cloths, and fresh garments. 

Then she would say, "Thank you, Anna. That will be all."

As expected, the maid hesitated. "I... would be happy to assist you--"

"--I can assure you that won't be necessary. You can prepare breakfast: I will have finished by then."

What other choice did Anna have but to obey? Still, as the door closed behind a puzzled maid, Mithian hesitated. 

Sighing, she reached behind to unbutton her dress-- The stretch triggered a spasm across her back and her ribs. She hissed and bit her lip. Afraid of her reflection in the mirror, she dragged the hot water basin further away. By the time she sunk into the bath, tears flowed down her cheeks. 

At, she distracted herself by trying on her fixed boots. Perfect-- they would last three months as opposed to three days. Camelot had excellent cobblers. 

"Has Wilfrid sent my letter yet?" she asked Anna, ripping off a chunk of bread. Steam rose from the crust, making her mouth water. 

"Unfortunately, I do not think so, my Lady; the Treaty documents need proofing, and this could take another day."

On the cusp of venting her frustration, she changed her mind and stuffed the bread into her mouth, along with some cheese. Her appetite did not extend to the cold beef, however, so she ignored Anna's disapproving glances and stood up.

"You did not drink the comfrey, my Lady?" asked Anna, picking up the cup that Mithian had abandoned yesterday. 

"Ah, not really."

"I think it advisable, in case of any infection--"

"--By the way, have you seen Merlin?"

If Anna was surprised by the diversion, she said nothing. "No, my Lady. But perhaps if I summon Gaius--"

"--Oh no, don't disturb Gaius on my account. I will endeavour to find him myself: he cannot be far."

Anna only smiled. 

Later, as Mithian hurried down the corridor, she realised why: everyone she asked had seen Merlin. One minute, he had been in the Castle kitchens (which she could not find), then the Post Room, and after, the stables. 

At length, she gave up and headed for the Council Chambers, relying on the Latin inscriptions and archways as a guide. 

Soon enough, she saw Merlin leave another corridor. Like many others, he carried a bunch of scrolls under one arm. Yet he wore a brooding stare, and though walking, seemed perfectly still at the same time. 

"Good morning, Merlin."

He jumped and staggered back. "M-Morning, Princess."

"Deep in thought?"

He smiled awkwardly and shrugged. "As deep as is possible while rushing from pillar to post."

Not knowing how to answer that, she glanced around, seeking another avenue of conversation. 

"You know," said Merlin, breaking into her awkward silence, "you do not need to attend this meeting. Without that letter back from your Council, I doubt you will discover anything new."

"I have every intention of attending."

Strangely, Merlin was in no hurry to move. 

"Well... doesn't it begin soon? My father may already be there..."

"So will Odin."

"T-That is no concern of mine," she said, her voice shaking. She turned around, wincing as her right ankle ached again. Oh, why hadn't she been more careful on those accursed steps? Hopefully the ache would subside today. 

"Ah... Princess?"

She turned back, biting her lip. "What?"

"It's this way." Merlin gestured to his right. 

"Ah. Right."

How embarrassing. 

"Why are you limping?"

She froze. "It's-- it's nothing."

Merlin didn't believe that-- of course he didn't. Worse, they had reached another flight of stairs that spiralled downards. Her stomach heaved. 

"Here."

She glanced up to see Merlin holding out his arm. Forgetting her clumsy lies, she grasped it. To her astonishment, she could keep pace without aggravating her ankle. 

"You'll need a poultice for that," he said, when they had reached the bottom. 

She didn't want to let go, but neither did she wish to betray any more weakness. 

"Yes, I... will arrange that when I return."

"Return? Princess, I don't think you should wait until--"

Sighing in impatience, Mithian let go of his arm. "It's under control, Merlin. Really. You don't have to worry."

But the ensuing silence brought her no peace, either. After all, Merlin was only trying to help... Perhaps she didn't have to shoot down every offer, even if she hadn't enough time to request assistance. Merlin had done so much for her, and her subsequent thanks had barely scratched the surface, so... Better to make him feel, at least, that he could help her-- even if she would leave soon. 

"Actually, could you do something for me?"

"Of course."

She had to smile guiltily then. "That letter to my Council? I desperately need it sent today."

"I thought it had already gone?"

She threw up her hands. "No! Apparently you are delaying post for espionage checks, which is really-- I mean... I just need it sent, Merlin. And I have to write to my brother, too, so... Do you think you could petition Arthur to give our letters priority?"

"I'll ensure he does so."

She heaved a sigh of relief this time. What a dependable person he was! For the second time that day, she smiled. 

"Thank you," she whispered. 

Reaching the Council Chambers again made her mouth go dry, for the guards remained stationed on each side, their spears glinting again. She glanced at Merlin, but he was engrossed with something on the ceiling. 

With a quiet breath, she looked down, barely acknowledging the guards' greetings. Once inside, she saw her father and King Arthur conversing, surrounded by Knights. 

Next to Leon was Andrew, who for whatever reason disliked Merlin. 

And on the other side...

Every nerve in Mithian's body froze as she came face to face with the man who had destroyed her life in one night. 

King Odin.


End file.
